Light of the Nozz

Its Wednesday, December 28, 2011, I'm frakkin' beat, and this is The Side.  Spent the last couple days working the floor I mentioned last post.  It was a valuable lesson to me about speaking up.  I should have gone with my gut, instead I spent a day scrubbing floor stripper on a floor.  My fingertips are feeling a bit funny at this point, but I figure when you get enough chemicals on them, that's what happens.

Not enough chemicals to keep me from typing though.

We've all gotten gifts over the years where we've wondered "what were they thinking giving me this?"  I can't actually recall one right now, but I'm likely repressing the memory.  I do remember getting one particular item that absolutely drove me nuts.  It wasn't something that was dumb of someone to get me.  In fact it was actually something nice.  It was a lamp.

I had a pretty big bedroom when I was in high school.  Having a drum kit and a drawing table took up a lot of room so I actually had the biggest bedroom in the house.  My folks got me one of those lamps that shines the light on the ceiling and illuminates the room.  You've seen them.  The tall skinny deals.  It was horrendously bright, but had a really sweet dimmer control, so it could be adjust ed to one's comfort level.  Perfect, or so I thought, and it went right next to the drawing table.

The problem grew from how I used the lamp.  I did my homework at the drawing table, so I'd be in the room in the evening, playing some music and getting things done.  I'd have the lamp adjusted so that I'd have enough light to see, but it wouldn't be too bright.  Never liked have lighting too bright.  Hurts my eyes a bit.  Unfortunately, this was deemed the incorrect way to use the lamp and my father would come in, fuss at me, and then turn the thing up to full.  the lamp was supposed to simulate sunlight.  Last I checked, we built a house so I would be able to get out of the sun.  That, and I don't think we're supposed to be looking at the sun directly.

So this persisted for months.  I'd be in my room with the light at a comfortable level.  Dad would come in and crank the sucker.  He'd leave and after a view minutes of squinting at whatever I was doing, I'd turn the light back down.  I'm not sure why the message of "When the light it turned up all the way it hurts my eyes" did not reach his brain, but it didn't.

Then I got the bright idea of removing the lamp entirely from my room.  I had other lamps in there that did the job alright.  Hell, I had a lava lamp that was much more pleasurable to my eyes.  I removed the lamp from my room.  I resisted the urge to chuck it out the window.  My folks weren't home from work yet, so I took the lamp, picked out a nice spot in another room and placed it there.  Then I went back in to do my homework.

In sit-com like fashion, my father upon arriving home discovered the lamp in the room which i placed it and brought it back into my room, plugged it in, and cranked that sucker up to the point which I then required a stronger glasses prescription.  All the while, reading me the riot act about how they had gotten me that lamp and I should use it properly.

The matter was finally resolved when I started making good use of the lock on my bedroom door.  When anyone knocked, I immediately cranked the light up as high as it would go.  Once business has concluded I'd turn it back down to my comfort level.  Some teenagers use the "Just a minute" bit when their parents knock on their door to hide the porn or whatever else they had that would get them in deep dip with their folks.  Not me.  I had to make sure the light was on.

Not a very traumatic story of youth, but we do have a moral: you can't tell people how to enjoy their gifts.

I really hate this song, but it seemed appropriate.

That's all for me today. see y'all Friday.


Todd Jordan said...

My parents were concerned about lighting as well but not obsessed.

Mother's thing was neatness. No stray cups, papers, clothes, etc.

Paul said...

One of my best friends in the world bought me V the mini-series, on VHS. I never liked the show, and ergo, never opened the set.

My parents, on the other hand, only ever got me stuff I wanted. I can't think of a single time I was disappointed with a gift.